


Cold Stone Sexy

by khasael



Series: Ice Cream & Innuendo [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Awkward Flirting, Flirting, Ice Cream, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 12:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6520624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek stops for ice cream after a shitty day, he really does not expect... all of this.</p><p><b>Or,</b> <i>Stiles's <strike>Milkshake</strike> Hands Bring All the Boys to the Yard</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Stone Sexy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Byaghro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byaghro/gifts).



> I have no excuse for this, really. Began nearly 3 years ago as an off-handed (ha!) comment to Esby while we were on an impromptu ice cream run during her lunch break one day, and devolved VERY quickly into this (though it sat, half-finished, for about 2 years). I'd say sorry, except I'm not sure I am. If y'all want pics of the hands in question, there are (several) links at the end of the fic. Because I'm giving like that. Also, there is 6k of smut to follow, as a sequel, because what was supposed to be 6-7 LINES of epilogue went "Nah. Go big or go home." I should maybe apologize for that. And also for the ice-cream-related puns, of which I have nearly 2 dozen that _weren't_ used as a title or summary. XD Much thanks to Groolover, who puts up with me and still decides to beta for me, as well.
> 
> (For anyone NOT in a location where these stores are all over, yes, it's a real chain, and yes, the listed items are actual menu offerings (but no, I've never worked for them). Because when I say this thing spiraled out of control, I mean it.)

"Fuck this day," Derek mutters to himself, finally able to slide into his car and get the fuck away from work and the hell it's been for the last ten and a half hours. Normally, he loves his job. Right now, it and a few select members of the staff can go take a flying leap. "Seriously, what a shit-show."

 _You know what shitty days mean,_ his big sister's voice says in his head, in that almost sing-song lilt that always used to accompany the words. God, he misses her voice.

"Ice cream," he mutters to himself, pulling out of the staff lot of the botanical gardens, grateful to leave it behind for the evening. Tomorrow, he can think again about how to fix the mix-up the newest intern somehow managed and figure out what to do to save the fucking plants some unidentified moron overwatered in the hothouse, probably delaying the upcoming exhibit by weeks. Today, he's done with all that, and he needs a distraction.

Especially if he's fucking talking to himself.

He doesn't even know where to go, really. Ice cream was always more Laura's thing, her absolute favorite dessert, something that was very nearly its own group in her personal food pyramid. She had a dozen places ranked from best to worst, depending upon exactly what she was in the mood for, in any city she lived in for more than a month. She'd started the tradition when Derek was still a kid, twelve to her sixteen, taking him out for her favorite treat whenever one of them had had a bad day, even sneaking it behind their parents' backs before dinner when the situation was truly dire. Once Derek had been old enough, he'd started treating her when the bad days were hers and he couldn't think of any way to fix whatever was wrong. Ice cream _always_ helped.

(Except, of course, for the one time he'd managed to chip a tooth on whatever had been in his portion. The jury was still out on whether it had been toffee or a chocolate chunk or an espresso bean, but Derek's avoided all of it since, because he's pretty sure their parents never quite believed their story about Derek tripping outside of the school, and he and Laura barely got away with their little secret. He'd like to get through life without any other emergency dental visits, thanks.)

"Fuck it, I'll stop at the first place I see," he mutters, then mentally berates himself for still actually talking to himself aloud. What he _probably_ needs, after a day like today, is a couple of good, stiff drinks. But this is tradition, damn it. He may not be able to share it with Laura anymore, but that doesn't mean shit.

The first place he passes is almost two thirds of the way between work and his apartment, and he pulls into the shopping center determinedly, finding a spot a few stores down from the red and white Cold Stone sign. He's never been here, doesn't even know how long this shop has been in this part of town, but the sign outside promises ice cream, and it looks like the sort of place Laura would have been all over making him try, insisting that Thirty-One Flavors wasn't the be-all and end-all of frozen dairy desserts, and Derek was both boring and uninformed for thinking so.

He steps inside to find a larger number of people than he's expected—and he probably should have expected this many, as it's been in the nineties all week—standing inside, waiting their turn at the counter. A quick glance around shows a menu of different signature flavors, combinations of ice creams and candies and that sort of thing, plus the increasingly obligatory shakes and malts and ice cream cakes. He spots the list of additions, noting how many of them are hard or crunchy, and wrinkles his nose. That one experience has made him something of a purist on the rare occasions he does eat ice cream, and he briefly considers stepping back out of line and just giving up.

But he's tired, he now has something of a craving, and he doesn't want to drive across town to the frozen yogurt place, or settle for something from the grocery store. So he steps into line, thankful when the place steadily empties of the college-aged and high school crowd. He's just kind of staring into the case, brows furrowed as he reads the placards for each flavor, and doesn't even really pay attention to the person behind the counter until he speaks, voice more chipper than it has any right to be on a day like this.

"What can I get for you?"

Derek just sort of grunts. Fine, he's a shitty customer, but whatever. There are over a dozen options, but none of them are calling his name, and he's about this close to just asking for plain chocolate, or bailing and saying fuck the ice cream after all, it's not worth this sort of added stress, when the cashier clears his throat and tries again, like Derek maybe hasn't heard him.

"Can I get you something in particular? Or would you like a sample, to help you decide?"

Derek's eyes flick up at that. "No, I don't want a sample," he snaps before his eyes land on the kid standing on the other side of the ice cream. He's young, kind of skinny and tall—lanky, maybe—but he's got these full lips and a funny upturned nose and big, brown eyes that are trained on Derek. And fuck it all, he's smiling, his eyes bright and cheerful, even, and Derek almost regrets snapping at him.

"Do you want a recommendation, then? I mean, if you don't already know what you want?"

Derek hesitates. What he wants is to be back in his apartment. Actually, no, he's changed his mind in the last ten seconds. What he wants is to ask this guy out for a drink (though he's probably not even close to old enough), get buzzed, and end up pressed close to this kid under the guise of needing to be in his personal space in order to hear him, as music plays so loud he can't think of how much today has sucked.

Derek realizes sort of idly that it's been a really goddamned long time since he's been laid.

"Yeah, fine. What do you recommend?" Easier to placate his body with ice cream than with one-night stands. Those never go well, and he almost always feels at least a little shitty afterwards. With the ice cream, the worst he has to worry about is a sugar crash or a stomach ache. Or, worst case scenario, another chipped tooth.

The kid hums. "Anything you can't stand? Or any allergies? Nuts, or anything like that?"

"No mango," Derek huffs, looking at the tub full of something in a bright yellow that's practically guaranteed to make him break out in hives or start wheezing. "And none of that blueberry pomegranate stuff, either."

Instead of returning the attitude Derek's unable to keep himself from giving, the kid just sort of gives him this reflective, considering expression, looking Derek up and down like he can see into his soul to find his favorite ice cream flavor.

It's uncomfortable. Partially because Derek feels like this kid might actually be able to do it, and partially because the kid is looking in a way that says he might be abusing the circumstances to ogle a little, and Derek really isn't looking his best right now. He probably even smells. "Just," Derek bites out, because now he's sure the kid's ogling him, maybe more because of the dirt on Derek's arms or the way his shirt's still kind of sweaty, and not for any sort of flattering reason, "what's your favorite?"

"My favorite? Well, I have a few. Depends on my mood, really. But on a day like today, I'd go with my old standby: Our Strawberry Blonde." When Derek doesn't say anything, the kid raises his eyebrows. "It's strawberry ice cream, with real strawberries, bits of graham cracker crust, caramel, and whipped cream."

Well, it doesn't have anything actually hard and crunchy in it, so Derek supposes it could be worse. "Fine, one of those. To go. The small size."

"One 'like it', coming right up," he says, and he's still smiling, impossibly. Derek has never understood how people can work customer service and deal directly with people all day and not want to off themselves or the public at large, but this kid doesn't seem fazed at all. He reaches into the cooler with a set of metal paddles and scoops out some of the pink ice cream from the tub that's half-empty, and Derek catches sight of his hands through the glass. They're nice hands, the kind that remind him of piano players or artists, with long, slender fingers. He doesn't even realize he's staring, tracking them, until the kid puts the ice cream and the other ingredients on the counter and starts mixing everything in. It's then that Derek notices the forearms on the kid, much more muscled than Derek would have figured. As he works everything together, the muscles and tendons bunch and roll and flex, and Derek finds he can't look away.

It's way hotter than it should be, and it makes Derek more fully aware of how long it's been since he's been laid.

The kid meets him down at the end of the counter near the register, and hands over the cup of ice cream after snapping a lid on top. Derek's just standing there with his wallet out, but the register screen is blank. He fingers the cash inside his wallet instead of taking the ice cream, and the kid just sort of smiles. "On the house."

"No."

The kid's still smiling. Not the super-cheerful, perfect customer service sort of smile, but one that's a little crooked, amused. "Really. No charge. Just, I dunno, tell me if you liked it, next time."

Derek just looks up at him, his eyebrows raised, and can't figure out what to say. There's no one else in here that he can see, but surely this kid has a manager to report to, who probably doesn't want his employees giving away product for free, other than the samples. But it's quickly apparent the kid isn't going to ring him up via the register; there's sort of a firm, stubborn vibe to the way he's holding himself, and Derek recognizes it, because he's not really the type to give in, either. And he really doesn't feel like battling it out when it comes to a test of willpower, tonight.

So instead, he grunts a thanks, stuffs a five into the tip jar anyway, to cover the cost or maybe make up a little for being such a dick to this kid who probably makes minimum wage, and takes the ice cream, settling it into the cup holder of his Camaro before he speeds home, just grateful to have somewhere to hole up and shut out the rest of the world.

The ice cream, as it turns out, is actually pretty fucking good. Not necessarily anything that's going to become his favorite, but it definitely makes his night better than it otherwise would have been.

 

* * *

It's probably three weeks later when Derek finds himself driving near that ice cream place again, exhausted and irritable and just wanting to disappear from existence for a while. He sees the storefront while he's waiting at a red light and, before the light has a chance to turn green again, he's made up his mind to double back a bit and stop. He tells himself it's still that habit, that bit of comfort he's after, even if the nostalgia is bittersweet, thinking of Laura and her habit of trying to soothe them both with frozen desserts, coupled with all the hours in a warm environment, and not the very small hope that the same kid is working this afternoon, the one who put up with him, even before Derek left a tip.

There's no line tonight, probably because it's only twenty minutes before they close on a Wednesday, instead of just after dinner on a Friday, like last time. At first, Derek doesn't see anyone at all, and wonders if he's read the time wrong, walked in ten minutes after they're supposed to be closed. But after a few seconds, someone pops out of the back, and Derek's actually sort of surprised to find it's the same kid from last time, because he usually doesn't have that sort of luck.

Now that Derek can see the kid from more than just the waist up, he looks older. Still young, yeah, but maybe closer to twenty or so than Derek had assumed. Maybe he goes to school at the university nearby. It's not like Derek doesn't know that a lot of undergrads—and even some of the grad students—work shitty jobs around town to help pay their way through school, or to support themselves while they try to find real jobs after graduation. Hell, he'd done it, running deliveries for a florist's shop on the weekends, even after he'd no longer really needed to worry about scraping together enough cash to live on.

"Hey, you're back!" the kid says, looking both surprised and actually pleased to see Derek as he approaches the counter. "How'd you like it? Our Strawberry Blonde?"

Derek's actually startled for a moment, not only that the kid recognizes him, but remembers the flavor of ice cream he'd had almost a month ago. "It was... good."

The kid laughs a little. "Just 'good,' huh? Well, maybe this time, we can set you up with something better than that. Unless you came in for something in particular?"

"I'm open to suggestions," Derek says. Because why the hell not?"

"No... what was it... mango?" the kid asks as they both walk to the far end of the line, where the ice cream case is. "Not a fan of tropical fruits? Because you nixed something else, too, didn't you?"

"Allergic," Derek says with a shrug. "The blueberry pomegranate thing just didn't sound good, though."

The kid cocks his head and chews on his lip. He's kind of staring at Derek's...what, chin? Or maybe just his face in general, but not focusing on eye contact. "You like cheesecake?"

"I guess."

"Oreos?"

"Sure."

"All right then." The kid nods. "Like it?"

Derek's confused for just a moment, because he obviously hasn't tasted anything yet, until he remembers this place doesn't use small, medium, and large, like the rest of the planet. "Yeah. That size works."

"You know, for a guy who walked into an ice cream place, you really don't seem to have much in the way of strong opinions when it comes to your preferences," the kid muses, reaching for the paddles to scoop the ice cream with. "It's kind of weird."

Derek just shrugs. He's not going to get into it, that ice cream was Laura's guilty pleasure, her favorite dessert, and he's been wanting it to feel close to her the nearer it gets to the anniversary of her death. "Maybe I'm weird."

The kid shrugs and gets to mixing things into the ice cream. Like before, Derek finds himself staring. He can't even help it, and he doesn't know why. He's never been attracted to someone's hands and forearms before. At least, not that he can recall. "I didn't say there was anything wrong with weird. Hell, I'm weird."

Derek makes a small huffing sound, watching the way the kid's fingers wrap around the handles of the paddle. His grip looks strong and skilled, but there's definitely some effort being exerted, and Derek feels a little flushed. "What's weird about you?"

"Plenty," the kid says, not looking up from what he's doing. "My name, for starters."

Finally moving his gaze, Derek looks at the kid's chest. There's no nametag there. "What's your name?" He doesn't look like the type to have hippie parents that would name him 'Cornflower' or something, but you never knew.

"Stiles."

"Your parents named you Stiles?"

The kid snorts, grabbing one of the small red cups to hold Derek's ice cream. "No, they named me something even _I_ have trouble pronouncing, because it was a family name. Believe it or not, 'Stiles' is less weird. But still. Not common."

Derek has to agree with that. "I guess not."

Stiles—and seriously, what kind of name _is_ that, even?—takes the cup of ice cream down toward the register and Derek follows. "Here you go..."

It takes Derek a second to realize the way Stiles trails off means he's expecting the introduction to be reciprocated. "Derek." He can't help watching Stiles to see if he has some sort of reaction to the name. He may be weird about ice cream, but at least he has a normal name.

Stiles just grins a little, like he's proud of getting Derek to participate in the exchange. "Here you go, Derek. The Pie Who Loved Me."

Derek's eyes flick to the giant menu board on the wall, the one that shows all the signature flavors, and he can't help the way his eyebrows go up. "Seriously? Who names these things?"

Stiles shrugs with one shoulder as he keys things into the register. Derek's kind of relieved he doesn't tell him it's no charge this time, but he doesn't know why. "Someone at corporate, I don't know."

Derek rolls his eyes, but he takes the ice cream and manages a passably social thank you while he dumps his change into the tip jar.

He's just stepping out into the night when Stiles calls after him, making him turn around, wondering if he's dropped his wallet.

Instead, Stiles smiles at him. "Let me know how you like that one, next time."

Derek blinks. "Yeah," he says, after a beat. "Okay. If I come back."

 

* * *

He comes back.

Of fucking course he does.

He could tell himself that it's because he's had yet another shitty day at work and wants something to take his mind off it, or that it's because it's even warmer out today than the last time Derek stopped in, and he's spent hours hunched over at work, his shoulders tight and aching and the small of his back feeling like someone's kicked him until they got tired of it.

It's all of those reasons, but it's also because he hopes Stiles is the one working. Not just because he's one of the few people Derek doesn't _have_ to interact with, who doesn't annoy the shit out of him, but also because... well, fuck it, because he's had two dreams about the guy in the last week and a half, and he keeps picturing those fingers, those forearms, when he's jerking himself off in the shower or in bed. And if he wants to spend three minutes in the presence of the person who's more or less indirectly responsible for helping him relax in that way, well, then, so what?

There's an older couple walking out of the shop as Derek walks in, but it's empty, other than that. He immediately looks to the counter, where someone is hunched over, wiping down the counter. For a split second, he thinks it's Stiles, but then the person stands up straight, and Derek sort of deflates, because it's definitely not him. This kid is maybe the same age as Stiles, but he's a little darker—skin, hair, eyes—and has a jaw that's kind of crooked. Still, he smiles as he catches sight of Derek. "Hey there! How're you doing today?"

Derek mumbles 'fine' in response and debates turning around and leaving without ice cream. But he's here, and Stiles wasn't his _only_ reason for wanting to stop in. He settles for standing in front of the ice cream flavors and trying to find something safe. He'd swear he isn't thinking about anything other than if he should stick to cake batter or chocolate, or if maybe he should just get one of the two ridiculously-named things Stiles made for him the other times, but what comes out of his mouth instead is "Is Stiles here?"

The other kid shakes his head. "Sorry. Hey, wait, are you the guy who called and talked to him about losing his sunglasses? Because we found a pair last night at close, if you want to describe them to see if they might be yours."

"No."

"Oh." The other kid waits patiently for a minute, then clears his throat. "Uh, is there a sample you'd like to try?"

"No." Derek's still staring at the selection. Stiles was probably right about him being a weirdo, unable to choose a flavor of ice cream. "I just... I'm not sure what's good."

"Dude. Trust me, everything's good here. If you don't want something from the Signature Creations menu, you can always make your own. You know, like sweet cream, with M&Ms and chocolate chips and Kit Kats."

Derek's nose wrinkles involuntarily. Too many hard things in his ice cream. "No, I don't think so. I just..." He sighs. "I had the strawberry graham cracker thing before, when someone suggested it. That was all right."

The kid's face clouds over for a second, confused, and he gives Derek this really weird appraising sort of look. Then, suddenly, his face lights up. "Derek?"

"Yeah?" It comes out more of a question than an affirmation, because Derek knows he's not wearing anything with his name on it. He'd ditched his uniform shirt before he'd even gotten off the garden's property.

"Dude! Wait, hold on. I know what to make you!" Derek just stands there, baffled, as the kid pulls a folded piece of receipt paper out from his wallet, then reads it. "Apple Pie a la Cold Stone!"

"Huh?" It's the most intelligent thing Derek can come up with under the circumstances.

"Stiles left me a note last week. Said if a guy with ch—uh, I mean, looking kind of like your basic description came in and had no idea what to get, that if he answered to Derek, I should make him this flavor."

Derek has no damned idea what to make of that. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know Stiles, right? My age? Goes to school around here? Works closing shifts, mostly? Doesn't shut up? Suggests ice cream flavors?"

"Yeah, I guess." That's probably more than Derek actually did know about Stiles, if he's honest, except that Derek also knows Stiles has some amazing-looking hands and fingers that make him think really surprisingly dirty thoughts, because Derek is maybe a little pathetic, or just kinkier than he'd thought before.

"Well, then, you're the guy." The kid's already working on getting the flavor together, even though Derek hasn't agreed to anything. Derek knows he hasn't, because he's still confused as shit. He's still staring at the other kid, wondering what sort of weird-ass dream he's having, when the kid rings him up and takes his money. He's _still_ kind of confused when he walks out of the shop, the sound of this other kid's voice following him out, with a cheerful "Have a good night, Derek!" ringing out as the door closes behind him.

"What the hell just happened?" Derek mutters as he starts the engine of his car. He glances back to the ice cream shop, which gives him absolutely no new information, then shakes his head and pulls out of the parking lot.

It turns out, the apple pie flavor's his favorite so far, which only makes Derek feel even weirder about the night's events.

 

* * *

"So I hear you met Scott," Stiles greets him in front of the ice cream tubs the next time Derek stops in.

Derek startles. He hadn't even seen Stiles at the counter. It's busy, around noon on a Saturday, and Derek's just resigned himself to just getting the apple pie flavor and running home with it as quickly as possible. He'd seen the kid from last time, standing back at the blender against the wall when he'd made his way closer to the counter to order, but there had also been a woman of maybe thirty and a kid who _couldn't_ have been older than sixteen working at the counter and register, and three employees seem like plenty. "I... guess?"

Stiles huffs a small laugh. "You know, Scott?" He jerks his head back to the kid who helped Derek last time, and the kid looks up at his name, then smiles and waves when he sees Derek.

"Oh. Yeah." He hesitates. "He said you told him what to give me, if you weren't there when I came in." He manages to not make it sound like a question, even though it kind of is. Because it's been a week, and Derek still can't figure out quite what to make of the whole thing.

Stiles flushes a light pink and ducks his head, and Derek should not find it so endearing. He really, really shouldn't. "Yeah, I, uh, thought it was better to leave something I thought you might actually like, in case you came in and had no idea what you wanted, instead of trusting you to Scott's taste? Because, I mean, he's my best friend and roommate and all, but... I dunno." He flicks his eyes up from the ice creams to Derek's face. "Did you like it, by the way?"

"Yeah, it was good."

The way Stiles smiles, wide and genuine, makes Derek glad he hadn't just turned around when he'd seen the line at the counter. "Awesome." He opens his mouth to say something else, but whatever it is, it's lost as another voice chimes in.

"C'mon, buddy. Flirt on your own fucking time. Some of us came in here to get ice cream, not pick up on people."

Derek turns around and levels a glare at the guy who feels the need to open his goddamned mouth, feeling a little better when the guy sizes him up and backs off a little. And Stiles says something then, with kind of a huff under his breath, and what it _sounds_ like is "Jesus Christ, cock-blocked by the guy who always gets peanut butter and pineapple in his mint ice cream, un-fucking-real," and Derek pauses for just a second, trying to figure out what the hell Stiles _actually_ said, because, one, cock-blocked? and two, who the _fuck_ got that combination of flavors?

He doesn't figure it out, because when he turns back to the counter, Stiles is already reaching for a flavor of ice cream, jaw kind of clenched and face a little redder than it was a moment ago, and Derek just decides to go with whatever today's personally-selected flavor is, because it's not like Stiles has picked anything awful before.

And yeah, he still watches Stiles work, maybe stares a little at the muscles of his forearms, even chancing a look up to the biceps that are revealed by his T-shirt, and Derek swears that if the guy behind him makes a comment about it, he will be in for a world of hurt, or at least social embarrassment. Because Derek really, truly doesn't give a shit about what people think of him.

Well, maybe Stiles, as it happens. But definitely not some stranger with abhorrent taste in ice cream.

The guy behind Derek in line, however, has apparently decided to keep his mouth shut, now that Scott's come over to wait on him. And, yes, Derek had heard at least _part_ of Stiles's muttered comment correctly, because Scott sets a large scoop of mint ice cream onto the marble mixing area and reaches for the peanut butter. Derek kind of wants to gag just thinking about throwing pineapple in with those two flavors, and instead elects to glance up at Stiles's face—after another quick glance at those hands and forearms, because fuck it, he's weak, and Stiles's hands do it for him, for whatever reason. Stiles still looks a little flushed, but when he looks up from putting Derek's ice cream into the usual size of cup, he still smiles.

"Here you go. Jessica will ring you up down at the end."

Derek takes the offered cup from Stiles and raises his eyebrows. "What? You're not going to tell me what this one's called?"

This time, Stiles definitely turns pink. His grin goes a little crooked, a little embarrassed, and he bites his lip before looking straight at Derek, taking a deep breath, and saying "All Lovin', No Oven," while Derek just blinks. And after a second, Derek can't help but laugh. He's not laughing at Stiles, meaning to mock him, but he's just... _amused_ , because it almost seems like this is Stiles's cheeky, sarcastic way of responding to their heckler behind Derek, and possibly even affirming that what they were doing _had_ been flirting.

Thank God, Stiles seems to get that Derek's not making fun of him, or ridiculing him, or some damned thing like that. At Derek's laugh, Stiles's grin evens out, widens, and Derek feels this weird, charged sort of shared moment that he hasn't felt in a long time outside of a bar or nightclub, only this is so much more natural than any of those. And, as he takes his ice cream to the woman ringing people up at the register, Derek glances back over his shoulder, just because, and sees Stiles looking back at him, staring. The douchebag behind Derek mutters something and rolls his eyes; whatever he says makes Stiles smirk, and, before Derek turns around to collect his change, he catches the wink Stiles directs at him.

An honest-to-God wink.

And if Derek grins like an idiot for the entire drive home, so what?

 

* * *

Derek manages to wait five whole days before he caves and finds himself headed back to the ice cream place. He’s been thinking over his last visit since he left, the way Stiles had reacted to the dickhead behind Derek in line when he’d been so rude about interrupting them, the way he’d given Derek that sort of shy, nervous grin when he’d handed over the ice cream, and the way he’d fucking _winked_ as Derek had turned back around.

He’s about ninety percent certain Stiles had been flirting, and not doing that customer service thing where you’re extra nice for tips, and maybe Derek’s ridiculous, but he really kind of enjoyed it, and wants to go back for more.

And also more ice cream, because the stuff’s starting to grow on him. And that’s in no small part due to Stiles’s surprisingly good selections.

It’s a little after two on a Thursday, and Derek had intended to just go home and enjoy the few extra hours of free time after a really hot, dirty day, but he finds himself turning off onto the street where Cold Stone is located without really thinking much about it. Once he realizes where he’s going, he just shrugs to himself and accepts it, because he’s really not fooling himself anymore about wanting to run into Stiles. Plus, it’s fucking hot out, and ice cream would probably sound good, even if Derek _weren’t_ sort of increasingly attracted to the guy who might be making it.

There is, miraculously, only one other customer at the counter when Derek walks in, despite the heat of the day outside. Scott’s the one ringing her up, though, which Derek should have expected, given his general luck. Scott looks up from keying the woman’s purchase into the register, and it probably says something that now at least two employees of this ice cream shop know his name, because Scott’s “hey, Derek!” and wide smile makes Derek think he maybe needs to start buying his ice cream from a grocery store if he wants to retain even a little bit of dignity.

There’s a sudden flurry of movement and noise from a table in the back corner Derek hadn’t even seen when he’d stepped in from the sun, and then he hears a startled-sounding “Derek?” as he turns fully around to see Stiles’s equally startled-looking expression.

“Stiles?” It’s definitely Stiles sitting there, staring at him with wide eyes, but he’s not wearing anything that looks like he’s working today—just a screen-print T-shirt, plaid overshirt, and shorts—and he’s got a small mountain of books and papers on the table in front of him.

“Uh, yeah. Hey,” Stiles says, seeming to suddenly realize he’s staring, because he looks away quickly and rubs at the back of his neck. “How’s it… how’s it going? You come in for, uh, another recommendation?”

“Something like that,” Derek says, because he can’t say he came in hoping to see _Stiles_ , specifically. “But if you’re not working, I can just get what you made for me last time, because that was good.” Stiles’s raises his eyebrows, but it looks surprised and hopeful instead of skeptical. “What _are_ you doing here, if you’re not working?” Derek can sometimes be found at his own place of employment during off hours, but that’s because he actually _enjoys_ where he works, and everything it has to offer. This place… doesn’t look like it offers much to employees who aren’t being paid to work, unless it’s just access to cold desserts on hot days like today.

Stiles makes a face. “Homework. Scott and I are carpooling to campus while my Jeep’s in the shop, and the buses are awful on hot summer days. At least there’s air conditioning here.”

That’s true enough, Derek supposes. It is pleasantly cool in the shop, and it has that nice, sweet smell a lot of ice cream shops have that he can never _quite_ identify. “Sounds fun.”

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes at the same time, gesturing at the text book open in front of him. “Yeah, right, fun. It’s awful. Seriously, who the hell knows or cares what the differences between angiosperms and gymnosperms are?”

“Gymnosperms have unenclosed seeds, while angiosperms flower and have their seeds enclosed in an ovary, for starters,” Derek says with a shrug, before he catches the way Stiles is suddenly gaping at him. He clears his throat and rubs at the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I mean… yeah.”

"… How the hell did you actually know that?" Stiles finally asks, once he stops staring at a way that's making Derek feel self-conscious. "Was that, like, on _Jeopardy!_ last night, or something, or is that actually something everyone actually _does_ know and care about and I just missed the memo?"

Derek clears his throat again. "I, uh, work at the botanical gardens. And I was a horticulture major, in college." He hadn’t started out intending to declare that major, because sports medicine was a thing he'd considered, as was international affairs, but hey, sometimes paths lead you in unexpected directions.

Stiles blinks at him for a few moments, and Derek is sort of just waiting for him to make some joke, make fun of him for being a dork or something, but instead, Stiles just sort of looks up at Derek with this hopeful expression on his face as he asks, "So, if you don't have anywhere to be for another five minutes, is there any chance you would be willing to give me a rundown on some basic plant biology stuff that I can't seem to retain, no matter what I do?"

It's not at all what Derek's expecting, and he's more or less startled speechless for a moment, before his mouth opens up and answers with a "yeah, sure," before his brain catches up completely. Because yes, he actually _can_ do that, and he definitely doesn't have anywhere else to be right now.

Also, he'd kind of have to be a little crazy to pass up the opportunity to sit and actually spend time with Stiles that doesn't involve them standing on opposite sides of the counter, with Stiles trying to divine what sort of ice cream flavor Derek might like best.

Stiles breaks into a wide grin, kicks at a chair to give Derek enough room to slide into it, and attempts to move his stack of text books and notebooks so that Derek has some table space of his own, and Derek sits down before this can feel weird. "So," he says, glancing at the Biology 1002 text that's sitting open on the table, yellow highlighter staining most of the page so bright it practically hurts to look at. "What do you need help with?"

"Fucking… all of it?" Stiles says after a brief sigh of frustration, and Derek tries not to laugh. "Human biology I generally get, for some reason, but the plant stuff just doesn't stick. Seriously, just a five-minute primer would be amazing."

Derek nods, already reaching for the text book so he can skim the chapter in question and see what it is Stiles is actually supposed to be learning, so he doesn't overwhelm him with details he doesn't need. It looks pretty basic, the sort of stuff Derek can give a full lecture on with essentially no prep, if someone put a gun to his head. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Dude. You're amazing," Stiles says, looking genuinely grateful, and Derek ducks his head and looks down at the pages of the text book instead, so Stiles doesn't see him flush.

"Yeah, well, thank me later, if this actually ends up being any help at all."

The next time Derek looks up, it's actually almost forty minutes later, and he belatedly realizes he's been sitting here in this ice cream shop for a while, and never even ordered. "I should probably buy something," he says, once they reach a logical point to pause. He feels more than a little guilty, sitting here and taking up space, but the shop has had a few customers since he's arrived, but never once come close to filling all the small tables inside.

"Oh, dude, sorry. You came in here for ice cream. You're probably hungry, and I—"

"More thirsty, actually," Derek says with a shrug. Probably a consequence of talking for so long, and not having water or anything nearby. He gets up and walks over to where Scott's wiping down a section of counter that looks pretty damned clean to Derek already. "You guys do smoothies, right?"

"Yeah, totally," Scott says, looking pleased at actually having something to do that's not a cleaning task. "What kind do you—?"

"Make him a strawberry banana," Stiles says, still hunched over a notebook, looking at the diagram Derek last drew. When both Scott and Derek just kind of look over his way, matching looks of surprise on their faces, Stiles raises his head and blushes slightly. "I mean, if he likes that? But he's allergic to mango, and doesn't like blueberry, and that's literally everything else on the smoothie menu. I guess there's always the 'create your own' option."

Derek's really got to start going elsewhere for his ice cream.

Scott's raised eyebrows speak volumes. Still, Derek just shrugs. "Yeah, then strawberry banana, I guess?"

"Coming right up," Scott says with a nod.

Derek pays for his smoothie and takes a sip. It's not earth-shattering or anything, but it’s decent, and pretty much what he expects from a smoothie. He's just sitting back down with it when he again realizes he's been here a while, and it might be awkward to stay much longer. "So, uh," he says after a moment of fiddling with his drink. "Did all that actually help at all?"

"Yeah, dude, totally!" Stiles's face suddenly turns guilty and uncomfortable. "I'm sorry if I ruined your afternoon or anything, though."

"No, you didn't," Derek assures him quickly. He _definitely_ didn't ruin it. "It was kind of nice being able to talk about this stuff to someone other than bored field-trip kids, for once."

He and Stiles apparently both feel the need to break the awkward silence that follows, because Stiles starts saying something Derek only half-catches, like "So if you have to go, I underst—" at the same time Derek blurts out, "If you want an earlier ride to campus, I have to drive by there on my way back home—" before they both shut up.

"Really?" Stiles asks, after a beat, while Derek's busy internally berating himself for pushing too far.

"Yeah," Derek replies, striving for casual. "I mean, I get it if you'd rather not. It was probably weird of me to offer."

"And it's probably weird of me to accept," Stiles says, shrugging, "but I'm pretty sure I told you the first time you came in that I was weird."

"I think I recall something like that." Derek smiles just a little. God, this is awkward. He never does shit like this. Asking someone at a club or bar to go somewhere more private, yeah, he's done that a couple of times. But offering some young college kid a ride across town? Not so much. "But yeah, if you'd like a ride, I'm heading that way."

Stiles glances over at Scott, who isn't even pretending to work. Derek catches the enthusiastic, encouraging flail Scott directs at Stiles, the way he mouths "GO" and makes a shooing motion, but he pretends he hasn't seen anything.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks. Just let me pack up my stuff."

"Sure. I'll be right back," Derek tells him, heading for the men's room. He doesn't even have to use it—he just heads there so he doesn't have to feel like even more of a creeper while he waits for Stiles. He takes his time washing his hands, staring at his reflection. "What the hell am I _doing_?" he mutters, like he's going to get an answer. He probably doesn't want one, because he's sure it'd be pathetic, anyway.

At least the campus is only a ten-minute drive in typical traffic this time of day. He can just put the radio on to avoid awkward conversation.

"So are you taking summer classes?" Derek says for some God-awful reason as they pull out of the parking lot. He wants to bang his head against the steering wheel. Way to ask idiotic questions. It's the last week of July—of _course_ Stiles is taking summer classes.

"Yeah, but only two of them," Stiles replies easily, like it wasn't the dumbest question he's heard all year. "I would have taken more, but it's a pretty limited set of options in the first place, and I still wanted to work full time to build up some cash, in case I have to lose a few hours during the regular semester, you know?"

Derek nods, because he does know. He'd thought about taking summer classes while he was in school, but hadn't ever done it, mostly because there was nothing he wanted to take enough that he was willing to give up his summer options of sleeping in and keeping a job he liked more than he'd expected to.

"I mean, it's not like I'm dumb or anything—despite asking you to help me understand shit that the eighteen-year-olds probably get, no problem—and had to retake something I failed. I just sort of find myself caught up in taking all the classes that are actually interesting, during the year, and putting off the boring shit until I can't put it off anymore. Not that I'm saying what you do is boring!" Stiles adds hastily, flailing in a way that Derek thinks might be distracting to most other drivers. "I'm sure it's totally interesting and exciting work, doing... uh... whatever it is that you do?"

Derek snorts a little. "I like my job. I wouldn't call it exciting, though." There are little rushes of pleasure, of course—seeing something finally start to bloom after careful tending, seeing the way a section of the garden comes to life just at the perfect time of the season, the way it should, feeling triumphant when a lackluster plant recovers under his care or when there are signs they've successfully managed a pest issue—but Derek's aware he's a nerd about those things, and most people just think "hey, look, a pretty flower," as they walk by, if they notice at all.

"So what is it you do? I mean, you said you work for the botanical gardens, right? But, like, I assume you don't run a register in the gift shop. You've got dirt under your fingernails sometimes, and I've seen you with pollen in your hair and grass stains on your jeans. So you've gotta work with the actual plants, right? And not just mowing or whatever, even though you look like you've got the muscles for manual labor like that, but something a little more in-depth, with all the botany knowledge and shit."

Derek raises his eyebrows, glancing at Stiles as they wait at a red light. There's this kind of eager, earnest energy about him, like he's actually interested. "It depends, sometimes, but mostly I work with the rest of the horticultural team and the botanical technicians. Doing stuff like planting, transplanting, basic preservation of each display or garden. Sometimes it's being out in the garden, getting dirty, sometimes it's a bit more lab work, working on soil analysis and fertilizer stuff, sometimes it's guiding tours and teaching classes, and sometimes it's the really basic stuff, like maintaining records of all the plants. But mostly what I've been doing this season is working in the greenhouse, getting stuff ready for a new garden on the grounds." He's kind of pleased with that, because it's somewhat more solitary work, and he doesn't have to worry about dealing with visitors and patrons nearly as much.

"Huh. That doesn't sound that bad."

"What about you?" Derek asks. He'd never really thought about what Stiles might be going to school for, but he finds he really is curious. Especially because Stiles has noticed a handful of little things about him, apparently, and made some pretty decent deductions about Derek's work. "Psychology major?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No. Not that I didn't consider that one." At Derek's questioning glance, he grins, just a little. "Criminal justice."

That actually... huh. Derek wouldn't necessarily have guessed that, but it sort of explains the way Stiles has gathered random details about his appearance to make some pretty spot-on educated guesses. "That's cool."

There's a brief pause, and then Stiles speaks. "Really?"

"What do you mean, 'really'?

"You're not going to tell me it's a lot more boring than all the TV shows make it look, or that I'm too scrawny and too much of a spaz to be a police officer?"

"Um." None of that had occurred to Derek. "No?" First of all, the scrawniness thing isn't anywhere on his radar. Yeah, Stiles is kind of slim, but Derek's seen his forearms, and they're muscled in a way that really works for him and, okay, if he's being honest, he's pretty sure the rest of Stiles is trim, but with some fair muscle definition. He's maybe looked once or twice. "I mean, I can't say anything about potentially boring professions, and I figure you've got good reasons for your own major."

Stiles gapes at him for a moment, then nods. "Kind of grew up with it. My dad's a sheriff back home. So it just sort of seemed like a natural thing. I already kind of thought that way, you know, and I was used to some of the ins and outs of police work, so I had a little bit of a leg up. I mean, I might not end up being an officer or anything, but there's a lot of options within the field. And I've still got around two years left of school, so I can figure it out a bit."

"You're a sophomore?" Derek tries not to cringe. He'd figured Stiles was young, but nineteen is definitely younger than Derek had been hoping.

"What? No. Jesus, is that why—?" He stops, shakes his head. "I guess technically, I'm a junior? I'll be a senior when the regular school year starts in September, anyway. I just sort of loaded up on classes I thought were interesting, like I said, and I didn't declare criminal justice right away. So I've got some stuff to finish up." He takes a deep breath. "But, uh, if it matters at all, I'm almost twenty-one. Like. A few weeks from now."

Okay, that actually does make Derek feel a hell of a lot better. He actually could ask Stiles out for a drink, and he's even got some time to psych himself up into it—which is something he's never needed to do before. What makes Stiles so different? He's so busy being relieved and trying not to look it that it takes a moment to realize Stiles seems to be waiting for something on his end. And then it clicks. "I'm twenty-three." He'll be twenty-four, come Christmas, but the age difference suddenly feels a lot less consequential.

"Really? That's it?"

Derek huffs. "Are you saying I look old?"

"No! Not old! Just, like, I dunno, okay?"

"Did you think I was some thirty-year-old guy?" It wouldn't be the first time someone's thought him older than he is, and usually that works to his advantage, but he's almost a little horrified to think Stiles may have assumed he was some creeper, hanging around him and Scott at the shop.

"No! I mean, I figured you were older, but the beard makes it kind of hard to tell, sometimes, for people, and most guys around my age aren't nearly that hot with facial hair, and holy shit, I just said that. Hey, look, it's my professor, I'm just gonna run away now, like I didn't just say something that embarrassing!" And with that, he's out the door and, thankfully, Derek's stopped in one of the outer parking lots of the campus, waiting for the vehicle in front of him to finish parking, or Stiles probably would have still attempted to dive out of a moving car.

Derek stares at Stiles's hastily retreating back until a car behind him honks, reminding him that he's blocking the flow of traffic. Stiles glances back at the noise, catches Derek's eye, and nearly stumbles. But then he's around a corner, and Derek can only replay those last few words as he heads for home, certain at least that Stiles thinks he's kind of hot.

He kind of wishes he'd had the chance to let Stiles know the sentiment is reciprocated.

 

* * *

The next time Derek sees Stiles, however, he's not exactly at his best.

That's actually a pretty serious understatement. It's not even just the fact that he's rain-soaked by the time he walks into the shop that's the problem. By the time he manages to get himself inside, he's actually hoping whomever is working is someone he's never laid eyes on. He's not fit for conversation at all and, in all honesty, he's probably one small stimulus away from just breaking down.

But he'd come here with a purpose, and his brain won't let him leave until he fulfills it.

It's Stiles at the counter, of course it is, because it's late on a Sunday and if Derek were thinking clearly, he'd remember Scott had said something about Stiles working mostly closing shifts. He's already talking as Derek approaches the counter, even. "Dude, okay, so I'd just like to apologize for being an idiot and making things awkward the other week..." is how he starts out, before he trails off completely, just staring.

Derek can't even make himself care all that much that he probably looks awful. He actually can't make himself do much of anything. It's hard enough to even make himself say anything, and he absolutely can't do general pleasantries right now. He vaguely hopes Stiles can forgive him, but even that's unimportant tonight. "Cotton candy ice cream," is all he finally manages. "Small size. With gummy bears." It's an absolutely atrocious combination of things, something too sugary that makes his teeth hurt, even just thinking about it, but Derek knows that was Laura's favorite, and he has to honor her in some way.

"Yeah," Stiles says, after a moment. He's probably still staring, but Derek can't even look up to verify. "Coming right up."

Derek moves down to the counter, almost surprised when there's someone else there to ring up his order, and doesn't even bother watching Stiles make his ice cream, his forearms and hands moving in the way Derek has always appreciated. He mumbles a 'thank you' to the woman at the register, somehow forces out a 'have a good night' in Stiles's direction, and takes his ice cream back to the car, thankful he was able to hold himself at least somewhat together.

There's a knocking on his window a few minutes later, the firm pounding of a fist loud enough over the noise of the pouring rain on the windshield that Derek hears it, startling. It's dark, but Derek can make out Stiles's face well enough through the window. It's mostly due to surprise that Derek even bothers opening the window, not caring about what the rain will do to his interior.

"Dude. Are you okay?" Stiles asks, his voice raised to be heard over the noise of the storm. "Actually, no, stupid question. Something is obviously wrong." He bends over a little more, peering into the car, and Derek somehow hears the loud sigh he makes. "What is it?"

There's no way Derek can put it into words. He can't explain right now that he's spent a good chunk of his afternoon sitting in a cemetery, wishing like hell his sister was able to be at his side, instead of under his feet, or that he's been driving around, aimlessly, for the last few hours, unable to go home, where it's too quiet and too empty, or that the rain just makes it worse, because he's pretty sure the arrangement he created this morning of all Laura's favorite flowers is thoroughly destroyed in a rain storm this harsh, and that the last of those things just sort of caps it all off, and is what made him stop here, wanting to do something more for her memory. He can't tell that to anyone and have them understand, and especially not to Stiles, someone he only sort of barely knows, someone he's been awkwardly crushing on for a couple of months. "Nothing."

"That is total bullshit," Stiles says. "Look, fine, don't tell me what's wrong. You're entitled to privacy, and you don't owe me anything. But at least be honest—are you okay to drive yourself home?"

Derek finally looks up, really looks, and sees the way Stiles's face is so blatantly concerned, the way he's just standing there, getting completely drenched, in his hoodie, his arms across his chest and tucked into the wet material. And that concern does just a little more to break him. "Yeah," he says, but his voice cracks. He can actually feel his eyes tearing up, and hopes Stiles will just assume it's the rain. "I'm fine."

Stiles pretty obviously doesn't believe him, but he doesn't comment. "Just. Do me a favor, and stay right here for a minute. Don't leave yet. I'll be right back." And before Derek can agree or disagree, Stiles is sprinting back into the shop, splashing through puddles as he goes.

When he comes back, he's got a bright pink and yellow umbrella clutched in one hand, and Derek would bet it belongs to the woman who rang up his ice cream. He's got something tucked up against his body, and he thrusts it out to Derek. "Here. Take it."

Derek does, feeling just a little curiosity through the aching sort of almost-numbness in his head and body, and opens up the brown paper bag. It's another container of ice cream, but in a much bigger size than Derek's ever ordered before. "What's this?"

Stiles gives an awkward sort of shrug. "There's not a name for it. It's not one of the signature creations. I guess if it needs to be called anything, you could call it 'The Claudia.' Look, I've got to get back inside and help close up, but... fuck, okay, my number's written on the side, and this is totally not how I was ever hoping to give you my number, but all I meant is that if you want to talk or anything, you can always call me, and not worry about bothering anyone with whatever it is that you want to talk about. And seriously, dude, if you're not cool to drive, call a cab or an Uber or something, okay? Do you have any idea how many accidents happen because the drivers are emotionally distressed? Don't be a statistic. Goddamn it, I sound like my dad. But I mean it."

"Yeah," Derek finally says, realizing for the first time that, umbrella or no, Stiles is soaked from the first time he came out here, and it's not exactly warm, end of July or not. "All right."

Stiles seems to take him at his word, hesitating for a moment and looking like he's trying to figure out something else to say, before he darts back inside, nearly skidding just inside the shop's door. Derek sort of blankly watches him for a moment, not really seeing much of anything, before he gets himself to focus enough that he feels he might be good to drive the rest of the way home. He pulls away when Stiles ducks into the back of the store a few moments later, the woman at the counter sort of eyeing him from her spot near the front, where she's wiping down some of the tables. He doesn't even think of either of the containers of ice cream until he's home again, concentrating just on getting himself home in one piece, between the wet roads, his own thoughts, and the people who can't seem to drive in the rain.

He manages one bite of the thing he actually ordered once he's home, and the overwhelming taste of sugar and childhood flavors that reminds him of Laura and summers with his family at the county fair and assorted amusement parks makes his throat almost close up until the lump dissolves into tears he doesn't even try to hold in, and couldn't even if he tried. He knows it's best to let it out, more wisdom and nagging from Laura in the days and weeks and months after they lost the rest of the family in the house fire that decimated their childhood home, and lets it just happen. When he's done, he puts the rest of the cotton candy and gummy bear ice cream in the freezer, unable to throw it away, and grabs the other container, not really looking at it until he gets himself under the covers, something random on the TV to provide background noise and perhaps some distraction.

Stiles's number is on there, just as he said, hastily scrawled in blue pen. Derek stares at it for a few moments, but he knows he won't be calling it tonight. Maybe ever, given that he's probably just given Stiles a shining example of 'not worth dating' and 'too many issues'. He tries not to think about it too hard. He has enough reasons to feel shitty tonight. So instead, he opens up the container, spooning up a little of the light pink and red concoction inside.

It's not the strawberry ice cream that Derek expects from the brief glance of the container's contents, but a rich vanilla mixed with another flavor that's so familiar. Another spoonful, and he's hit a small pocket of graham cracker and what might be whipped cream. The third bite has a whole red cherry and more whipped cream, and Derek thinks of the cherry pie he used to get at the diner that used to be across the street from the college campus until two years ago, when the owners closed it down and retired.

He eats more than half of the container before shoving it back into the freezer, crawling into bed immediately after.

He does make sure to enter Stiles's number into his phone, for reasons he can't even entirely explain to himself, first.

 

* * *

It's the middle of the next week when Derek sucks it up and goes to see Stiles.

He doesn't even give a shit about the ice cream, this time. He's waited until Wednesday, because he's hoping the place where Stiles works operates with steady, recurring schedules, and he's been able to catch Stiles alone on a Wednesday night before. If there's anyone else there instead, he can either force himself to come back another time, or take the coward's way out and leave a note. He hopes it doesn't come to that, though. He really feels like this should be done in person.

He waits until ten minutes before they close, because he figures most people aren't going to be hanging out at an ice cream place that late in the middle of the week, summer month or not, and finds just one other customer inside, eating the last bite of an ice cream cone as she gathers a notebook up from the table and starts to leave.

Stiles pops out from around the corner when the bell over the door dings, calling out a "have a good day!" at the customer's back before he catches sight of Derek walking in past her. "You're back," Stiles says by way of greeting, but it's not nearly as enthusiastic as it's always been before. "How... how was the ice cream?"

It almost kind of stings that Stiles is sticking with professionalism, but Derek totally gets it. He honestly can't expect any better. "It was good." All the things he came in to say suddenly abandon him. After a moment, he says the only thing he can get out: "Maybe you could pick out another flavor you think I'd like?"

Stiles nods, face totally neutral. "Yeah. Maybe I'll finally figure out your favorite."

"Yeah, maybe."

God, he's such a failure.

He still watches Stiles do his thing with the mixing, even though that's what got him in this sort of mess in the very beginning, reasoning that he can enjoy it one last time. Because there's really no way he can keep coming back here and getting ice cream from this place, from these people.

He's not even really sure he'll enjoy ice cream ever again.

It takes him until he's handing over his credit card to pay for his order that he finally makes himself say what he came here to say. "I'm sorry." Stiles's eyebrows go up, a definite look of surprise on his face, but he doesn't say anything, so Derek just sort of blunders through the rest. "I was really fucked up the other night. Not drunk or anything, but just fucked up in the head. It was the first anniversary of my sister's death, and I didn't handle it well. I didn't mean to bring you down. It was really weird, and I'm sorry I was a mess."

Stiles just stands there for a moment, not talking, and Derek would turn and bolt, except Stiles is still holding Derek's credit card. He's got this weird set to his jaw that Derek can't identify, and he finally sighs really loudly through his nose and slaps Derek's card down on the counter. "Stay. There," is all he says, and then he's sort of stomping towards the back, and Derek just blinks, unsure if he should listen, or take his card and whatever he's bought and run, never to return.

He doesn't even really have time to consider it that hard, because Stiles is marching back to the counter only a few seconds later, literally dragging a very confused-looking Scott by the arm, wet and soapy dish gloves still on his hands. "Explain October tenth," Stiles demands of Scott, who just looks surprised on top of confused.

"What do you—?"

"Explain to Derek why I disappear every October tenth."

"Stiles, are you s—?"

"Just do it, okay? Bluntly, no frills."

Scott shrugs, managing to get Stiles to let go of his arm with the movement, and blows a long breath out through pursed lips. "Fine." He turns to Derek, apparently deciding Stiles isn't going to let whatever this is go. "Every October tenth, Stiles goes out to breakfast with his dad before they go to the cemetery and put flowers on his mom's grave. And then he disappears for the rest of the day, and basically just curls up in bed or something." He looks at Stiles. "Is that what you wanted?"

"Yeah, buddy, good enough, thanks."

"Good. I'm going back to the dishes. Bring me the last of them whenever you're done with whatever it is you're doing." He doesn't even look back at Derek before he disappears again, but he looks more resigned than annoyed.

"So," Stiles says, very deliberately, once they're alone again. "You don't have to apologize for anything. I totally get it. It's okay. I don't think you're some freak, or a basket case, or anything else you're probably assuming. That shit sucks, it messes pretty much everybody up, and there's a _reason_ I mostly keep to myself one day a year, because it's miserable and awkward to explain why you can't even run an errand at Target without sobbing because the cashier's wearing a familiar perfume. So, yeah, it's fine. You get me?"

Derek opens his mouth a couple of times before he gets out a "Yeah." He clears his throat. "Thank you." In one way, he feels slightly more awkward but, overall, he feels a hell of a lot better. "For being cool about the whole thing."

Stiles snorts. "Dude, you had me seriously worried I was going to see your penis-car on the news that night, all smashed up, because you hadn't listened about driving while emotionally compromised, especially with all the rain." He must see the way Derek winces, because alarm fills his face immediately. "Shit, dude, don't tell me that's how—"

"Drunk driver," is all Derek says, taking a deep breath. It's always hard to talk about, but more so when it's fresh in his mind already. Still, he can do it. He's a big boy.

"Shit. I sort of tend to stick my foot in my mouth a lot. Which, uh, might not surprise you, given what I said in your car the other week." He flushes and looks down at a spot behind the counter Derek can't see.

"About guys your age with facial hair not being as hot?" It's almost certainly unintentional, but somehow, Stiles has managed to find a way to move on from what could have been an incredibly draining and depressing conversation for both of them, and Derek is so grateful to not have to have it that he clutches at the new topic.

"Dude, come on, to be fair, most guys aren't as hot as you are, period." Stiles is still bright red, but he looks up at the end, almost as if challenging Derek—or even himself, who knows.

Derek would like to have some smooth response to that, but he absolutely can't come up with anything. He's usually good at flirting and picking people up, but he's completely at a loss when it comes to Stiles, and he has no idea why. "Oh?"

Definitely not smooth.

He's about to try to continue the conversation in _some_ way, maybe to ask if Stiles actually did okay in his biology course, when an alarm sounds from the back. It's pretty quickly silenced, but what follows is Scott's head popping out around the corner as he yells, "Close this shit up, Stiles, it's time to get out of here!"

"Sorry, I don't want to keep you," Derek says, hastily stuffing the card that's still sitting on the counter into his back pocket, not even bothering with the wallet. He makes for the door, at least managing to smile when he tells Stiles to have a good night on his way out.

He's only to his car door when the door to the shop swings open, Stiles half-falling out of it. "Dude, wait! Go out with me?"

"What?"

Stiles's eyes are wide and slightly panicky, like a frightened deer. "Will you go out with me? Like, just for coffee or something, somewhere that's not here?"

Derek blinks. "Yeah. I'd love to."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. I'll, uh, call or text you tonight?"

Stiles grins widely. "You kept my number!"

"Yeah." Derek had thought it was just another way to torture himself at the time, knowing he'd never be able to just text Stiles casually after what had happened that prompted him to give his number in the first place. He'd thought maybe he'd heard Stiles say something about wanting to give Derek his number in some other context or situation, but couldn't trust that he had completely accurate recall over anything that happened that night. "I did."

"Awesome."

Derek just stands there, grinning, and Stiles is doing the same damned thing until Scott comes to the door and says something Derek can't hear. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Hey, Mister Assistant Manager over here apparently wants to get this shit done and go home, so I should probably get going. But seriously, call me?"

"I will." He suddenly realizes he's almost mangling the container of ice cream in his hand. He'd caught a whiff of cinnamon before Stiles had put a lid on it and slid it across the counter, but hadn't really paid attention to what had gone into it, just focused on the movement of Stiles's hands and forearms. "Hey, what's this one called, anyway?"

Stiles laughs. "That's How I Roll." Scott's hand appears and yanks Stiles inside, and Stiles is still laughing as Scott locks the front door to the shop, shooting Derek a look that's equal parts exasperated and apologetic. Derek gives him a wave and ducks into his car, feeling light and happy in a way he definitely had not expected when he stepped out of his car only fifteen minutes ago.

 _That's how I roll, huh?_ Derek texts before pulling away, just so Stiles knows he wasn't kidding or leading him on, and will now have his number as well.

Twenty-six minutes later, as he's finishing off the ice cream—and it's fucking perfect, with the cake bits and cinnamon, and even the pecans that are in it aren't too hard; it's definitely his favorite—he gets a response: _Yeah. Like it?_

Derek huffs a laugh, thinking of the stupid way Stiles's work names ice cream cup sizes. _Might even get to Love It._

The response is immediate this time: _Oh, just wait. Someday, you'll find you've Gotta Have It._

Derek grins and opens up his browser to look for local coffee shops that have late hours. Maybe he will.

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, if you want images of Stiles's/Dylan's hands, you can take a look [here](http://49.media.tumblr.com/e31d6eedd11831f954003adf0e7a91f5/tumblr_mnnwnkjLdO1qhw9vxo4_r2_250.gif%0A), [here](https://33.media.tumblr.com/68c9f39863cda92927753012a8f84e1f/tumblr_mj1zc9zdAX1qed3doo5_250.gif), [here](http://49.media.tumblr.com/04e668bae72073253ab279af08618b46/tumblr_mnnwnkjLdO1qhw9vxo2_r2_250.gif), [here](http://49.media.tumblr.com/544cc501378173a749fa45647728f4cf/tumblr_nvc2kyHwJR1usfncfo3_250.gif), [here](http://37.media.tumblr.com/9729a3517fa01840244a3ebd4ed490d8/tumblr_n4dablCbWF1qhm3wgo3_250.gif), [here](https://thetvwatchtower.files.wordpress.com/2013/04/dsc05958.jpg), [here](http://45.media.tumblr.com/f828a4cf589e25d5e4ca872da0d9c0bb/tumblr_mnnwnkjLdO1qhw9vxo8_r2_250.gif), [here](http://25.media.tumblr.com/547ca4fdb06dda3fe4417db93e7a0ef8/tumblr_mzo8u6CeT21rshr5to4_250.gif), [here](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbso4vdVEO1r0k7sfo1_500.png), aaaaand, [THIS WHOLE BLOG](http://dylanobrienshands.tumblr.com/).  
> (Also,  there's a reaction on video  to him finding out about the blog.)


End file.
